Resemblance
by littlechivalry
Summary: Post HBP and Draco Malfoy is on the run. He is trying to leave his troubles behind, but what is he to do when someone else's find him? HP/post finale BtVS crossover, AU. Slash, non-con, very dark. Pairings as yet undetermined.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters or worlds of Harry Potter or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I do own other stuff. But you can't have it. It's mine.

(_12345_)

**RESEMBLANCE**

For his failure to kill Dumbledore, he would die; but then again, he would die for even trying.

When he ran that night or, more honestly, was dragged, still dazed from the events on the Tower, he didn't know where he was going or what was going to happen to him. His only concern was for his parents, but he could still see Dumbledore, lit green and falling. He let Snape's harangue about 'stupid, reckless children' wash over him, harshly panted as it was.

They hadn't gone back to Voldemort, instead Snape had taken him to Spinner's End, a dilapidated hovel but paradise still because, for the moment, he could stop running. He didn't even feel the ground as he fell to the floor, exhausted.

When Draco woke hours later, still on the floor but covered with a soft, if moth-eaten, blanket, he saw a small satchel with a note pinned to the top.

In Snape's rigid hand, it read, "_They know this house. I ran to distract them. I suggest you show your appreciation for this act by taking the opportunity I am giving you. Draco, your father is dead. Nothing could be done. In truth, he died months ago, raving in Azkaban, but the Dark Lord did not trust you would fulfill your mission if you knew. _

_Narcissa is still alive. She is hidden somewhere in Paris. As you know her better than I, you will better be able to find where she has gone to ground. There are muggle clothes and money in the bag; you will be safer hiding amongst them now, away from everyone_."

A few lines down, and in a shakier hand, Snape continued, "_I do not know if we will meet again. What I have done is truly unforgivable, more so than any childish spell. I have never had the chance to start afresh. Doomed from birth by blood and circumstance, then what the follies of youth did to taint the man I became… You have that chance now. _

_Amongst muggles, you may recreate Draco Malfoy, and become the person you were perhaps always meant to be. I hope we do meet again, someday, so that I may see the man you will become._

_Sleep well and be safe,_

_Your Godfather._"

Cursing his own weakness and sentimentality, Draco brushed tears from his eyes and gently folded the letter, wrapping it in the ragged blanket he had been covered with and tucking it deep inside the bag. The muggle money was paper, he couldn't imagine any proprietor preferring it to gold, and the clothes felt strange, accustomed as he was to loose robes and more luxurious fabrics. Still, they fit well enough, and seemed sturdy.

Hiding his wand down the front pocket in the dark blue trousers, he hefted the bag and left, not noticing the house fading from sight as he walked away.

Draco Malfoy didn't look back.

(_12345_)

Living in a cold water flat in Paris wasn't what he was used to, but it was better than what he would probably have had staying in England, which would be a quick and painless death if he were lucky.

After three months, he still hadn't found his mother, but he hadn't given up hope. Every day he found new rumors to follow, even hints that she might not be alone, but in the company of a tall, austere, greasy haired man.

In the meantime, he almost enjoyed living amongst muggles. Once he got the money and technology thing figured out, it was… restful. There was no pressure, no expectations.

In case anyone was looking for him, he gave up magic completely, locking his wand in a drawer in his desk so he got to experience the day to day life of regular muggles. He'd found a part-time job in a small book shop and was enjoying a mild flirtation with a clerk in a boulangerie that he knew would never go anywhere, and things began to feel almost normal.

He was lonely, having no close friends for their safety and his own, but that was nothing new. Spending his youth surrounded by Death Eaters-to-be had made him wary of personal associations, but it wasn't that bad, and every few weeks he made his way to a small nightclub and danced with the entire room.

(_12345_)

He'd followed the rumors here, a pretty young man with a tongue like a knife, bleached blonde hair, dressed in black, and more attitude than he could afford, and there he was, writhing in the middle of the dance floor.

Spike.

(_12345_)

**Note: **So here we have the first chapter of a new story. This one is going to be very dark and I can't make any promises regarding pairings because there is a lot of drama before we hit any fuzzy feelings. There will be sex scenes and a rape in the next chapter or two. So if you can't read that sort of thing, you might want to skip a few chapters and come back in about a month.

Please review. I won't be updating this regularly until I have finished one of my other incomplete stories, but I want to know what you all think.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I do not own these characters or these worlds. I make no money from doing this.

**Note on Violence: **This chapter contains some physical violence and abusive language. I rated this one high for a reason.

(_12345_)

**Chapter 2**

Draco woke up on a floor, reminded for a moment of that first morning after fleeing Hogwarts.

That occasion resulted in the loss of his home, his father, and his Godfather. As his head cleared, he wondered what he had lost now. It was not an unusual situation after his weeks on the run, kipping wherever he found the space and the illusion of safety, but it was still unpleasant.

He called himself twenty kinds of fool for forgetting that, though he was away from the War, he hadn't really escaped it, and there could be Death Eaters or Order members everywhere. Even in grotty nightclubs on the border between the gay district and everywhere else.

He had dropped his guard in exchange for a change to feel human again, to touch and be touched by warm flesh even if it were a stranger's.

Now, he would pay for his carelessness.

Peering carefully from the corner of his eye, he saw that the man pacing across the floor a few feet away from him had that square-headed wholesomeness he'd previously only associated with Potter, but there was a strange, sharp edge to the green-clad figure that kept Draco still in place, and quiet.

Soon enough, the man stopped, and Draco watched shining black boots turn towards him, then the sharp, choking rush of being dragged up by his shirt collar.

"Hello Hostile 17, miss me?"

He didn't recognize the voice, with its flat American accent, and he had no idea who this 'Hostile 17' was, but the man questioning him did seem familiar in one respect. Though well camouflaged by an average exterior, his eyes were mad.

Being raised amongst Death Eaters had given Draco enhanced senses towards the lunatic fringe, survival instincts really. And this man made the alarm bells ring louder than almost any other ever had.

The blond boy struggled to his knees, or tried to as one of the heavy boots settled on his back, pressing lightly. Always having enjoyed the sensation of a whole rib cage, Draco followed the silent command and went still no the floor, hoping that the show of submission would win some mercy in the lunatic's plans.

The man spoke again, "You thought you were so smart, playing dead. Playing hero." As he said the last, the man stepped off of Draco's still form, then stomped heavily on the floor. "You thought we were fooled, that she was fooled?"

Now the man crouched on the floor next to Draco, raising the boy's chin slightly so masked grey eyes could meet intent hazel ones. With a soft voice, he went on, "You're not a hero, Spike. You never were. No one ever loved you, or even cared about you, no matter what you did, what you pretended to sacrifice for them. You are worthless."

He stood and began pacing again, speaking matter-of-factly. "Part of the problem is that you've never realized that about yourself. You've always had an exaggerated sense of your place in the world.

And I aim to correct that."

Draco felt a sharp tug on his hair, and then his face was forced into the wooden floor. As he heard the sudden crack of bone the world went dark.

When he woke again, he was upright, which would have provided a slight sense of relief had he not been tied to a chair. The heavy wooden frame had sturdy armrests, and Draco was tied arms, legs and chest to the thing.

He struggled as much as he could, but all he managed to do was dig the thick ropes into his skin, when he got free, if he got free, there would be marks there.

The heavy _wrong_ sensation of broken bones made his head feel heavier than it ought. He could breathe properly, so it wasn't his nose. He thought it might be his cheekbone, and since the heavy swelling hadn't set in yet and he could still see out of that eye, he knew he hadn't been unconscious for long.

A quick spell would have healed his face in a trice, and cut his bindings, and knocked the lunatic holding him on his ass. But Draco's wand was locked in a drawer in his apartment, and wandless magic had always stood just beyond his grasp.

Draco took a deep breath and tried to focus on his surroundings. The room was the same one he had been in before; he remembered the knotty pine floors from their earlier introduction. It was dim, the meager light leaking in from a high window. Draco thought he might be in a cellar of some kind, an idea encouraged by the damp chill in the place. His club clothes, tattered muggle jeans and a tight tee shirt, were no match for the cool air and he shivered slightly, but from the cold only, he reminded himself, never from fear.

But truthfully, and he could admit such things in the darkness of his own head, he was afraid. He was being held by a stranger. The American didn't seem to know who he was, which was a blessing, but he believed that Draco was someone else, someone named Spike. And the American did not seem fond of this Spike.

The door opened quickly and brought in a flood of light. Head aching, Draco squinted against the glare, trying to see something beyond the dark shape in the doorway.

The American was back.

"Awake, Spike? About time. I thought your kind had better recovery time than that."

The wise thing to do at this point was keep silent.

Draco had never been wise.

"I don't know this Spike or Hostile or whatever the hell it is, but I know I'm not hi--"

A hard slap shut Draco's mouth tight, forcing his teeth through his bottom lip. He could feel the tender flesh tear under the pressure and he spit blood as his head rang, his cheek screaming from the pain. Through the ringing in his ears, he could hear the man talking again.

"Remember how much fun we had in the lab, Hostile 17? We can have that much fun again, and more now that I have you back. And this time, there's no one left to rescue you."

And as the man's hand flew again, Draco knew at least part of his insane rambling was true.

There was no one to rescue him.

(_12345_)

**Note: **Okay, this is a crossover. As you can tell from the first chapter we are post HBP in the Potter-verse, and we are post finale for Buffy the Vampire Slayer. For my other crossover MY ANGEL, I provided a quick recap of where the different shows were. Do you guys want me to do that again? Or do you have a fairly good idea of what is going on? Let me know. If necessary I an provide synopses in the next chapter.

Now review. Or I will fling hummus at you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters or worlds of Harry Potter or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I kind of wish I did because I've been shopping a lot lately, but I don't think it's going to happen.

(_12345_)

**Pre-chapter note: **This chapter contains some mentions of sexual behavior, bad language, and OCs.

(_12345_)

**Chapter 3**

Paris was the City of Lights . It was beautiful and majestic, historical. And so damn boring, Xander was on the verge of shoving a fork through his hand just for something to do.

"You're not having fun, petite?"

The lightly accented voice pulled Xander from his only slightly joking thoughts of self-mutilation. His lover of six months was staring at him with the molten blue eyes that had caught Xander's attention in the first place.

"I'm sorry, Paul. I'm just remembering."

Paul smiled and turned back to talk to his sister and her fiancé, and Xander went back to contemplating the eternal in the back of his soup spoon.

It wasn't that the group was boring, or that he didn't care about Marie and Gerard's wedding plans. He was just distracted, caught up in memory again.

After the destruction of Sunnydale, Xander and the surviving Scoobies went to London to rebuild the Watcher's Council. It had been hard work, gathering the potentials and beginning a new school to train them; one that would focus more on logic and tactics, rather than blind aggression. But, after what happened in Sunnydale, it was no longer enough for Slayers to venture into battle with the traditional black and white worldview that had served them in the past.

It had been two years, two anniversaries, since the fall of the Hellmouth.

Though Xander had been satisfied with his new role teaching ethics and comparative morality to the Potentials, after a while he got itchy. All of his friends had moved on in the world, and he was still waiting behind, so when Giles suggested setting up a branch office of the Council in Paris , Xander jumped at it.

Of course, his luck held strong. His first date in the new city , his first date since Anya… died, turned out to be a succubus. Once upon a time, Xander had fantasies of having his soul sucked out through his cock, but he never meant it literally.

That was when Xander met Gerard. Pinned against the wall of an alley by the demon, Xander had just enough energy to call for help. He had been answered by a rough English accent and then he saw a white-blond man pull the woman away and throw her to the ground.

As he slipped into an exhausted darkness, Xander had one name on his lips, "Spike?"

He woke up on a couch, and looked frantically around him for the blond vampire. Logically Xander knew he was dead, but then again, Spike always had been.

When he saw the creamy white knit skullcap sitting on top of the television set, he choked back a frustrated sob. For a moment, it had been so real. And when the _very_ red-headed Gerard came in carrying two mugs of tea, Xander could have cried.

After a few minutes of awkward conversation, Gerard laid his cards on the table. He knew what demons were, he knew what potentials were, and he knew who Xander was. And he wanted to help.

An auspicious beginning to the branch office. It became a training facility and a detective agency of sorts, people with problems outside the realm of the normal police force seemed to find their way to the door almost as soon as the place opened. And one of those people had been Paul.

Knowing Xander's history with Spike, Gerard had tried to keep his friend away from the man who looked so much like the vampire Xander had described, but it seemed their meeting was inevitable. At first the two fought like cats and dogs, but eventually they fell into friendship, then love. No one was more surprised than Xander to find that he was gay, though the thought had crossed his mind before. And then to realize that, though he would switch on occasion, he was actually a very happy bottom? That was news.

It was a year since Xander's move to Paris, and six months since what he and Paul had became 'official', and yet all Xander could think about was Sunnydale. Whenever his attention wandered, he was there again, standing outside the high school waiting for friends that would never come out.

The remaining Scoobies had resolved to meet every year on the anniversary of that day. The first anniversary had been murder. As soon as they were all in the same room together they fell into a puppy pile of tears and embraces. Once the first wave of grief had passed, they spent the night drinking and telling stories about the ones they had lost; Jesse, Kendra, Joyce, Tara , Anya, Spike. Some of the stories were funny, or embarrassing, and others brought on the tears again. By the end of the night, the tears were softer, gentle, lacking the painful edge they had carried. Friends were lost, family, but some remained. Xander felt better, lighter, than he had for a long time that night.

They were due to meet in another month, but Xander wasn't sure if he could attend. He was in the middle of an investigation that was taking all of his skills and most of his concentration.

Men and boys were disappearing from dance clubs and shops. Their bodies would be found hours later, raped and mutilated. They all followed a specific body type and appearance. Medium height, lanky but muscular, pale, and platinum blond. Six dead so far and the police still hadn't officially announced a serial killer. Still, the grapevine had served its purpose and for the past few weeks there had been a run on brown hair dye and self-tanner.

Xander had access to a bit more information than the average club-goer, but not much. There was no discernable pattern except for the victims. There was no single drop spot, bodies had been located miles from one another, and there was no set schedule, weeks would go by before one appeared, and then there might be three within as many days.

When the bodies first began showing up, Xander and Gerard had urged Paul to disguise his distinctive white-blond locks and the man agreed, dying them strawberry blond. The three men kept the information away from Marie, telling her it was just for fashion's sake. At five months pregnant, they didn't want to do anything to upset her. For their own safety as much as the baby's. Pregnant hormones were terrible things, in that they provoked terror.

It was still strange to see, though. Xander thought changing his hair might make Paul look less like Spike, but the soft peachy curls framing sharp cheekbones and deep blue eyes just enhanced the resemblance.

A sharp pinch to his wrist brought Xander out of his thoughts, and he found himself staring at Paul, who blushed lightly at him. Just a few feet behind the blond Xander thought he saw a familiar face, but the man walked away and Xander got pulled back into the conversation to provide his opinions on cummerbunds.

Personally, he was against them.

And why was Riley Finn in Paris ?

(_12345_)

**Note: **So there we have it, chapter 3. AS far as the original characters go, get used to them because they are an important part of this story. Normally I prefer to populate my stories with the canon characters of the series, but I can't do that in this one. I mean, part of the reason we go to new places is to meet new people.

Now, as anyone who is familiar with Buffy the Vampire Slayer should have some idea of what is going on right now, I will provide a brief primer for those who are not.

On the series Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season 4 (I think), there was a government agency called the Initiative. Their job was to capture and study the demonic and magical population. They performed experiments that would be considered torturous if they were used on humans and in the end they were corrupted from within and destroyed. Riley Finn was one of the soldiers working for the Initiative and at one point the organization captured Spike, a vampire, and implanted a chip in his head that caused him terrible pain whenever he tried to attack a human being.

If you get the impression from this synopsis that I did not like the Initiative, congratulations. Being a member of the alternative minority makes me a bit leery of this sort of thing.

For those of you who are also reading THE LITTLEST LONGBOTTOM and MY ANGEL, I'm sorry. I am working on the chapters but I got a little overambitious. I wanted to have those updates up this week but it just isn't happening. I will have them up as soon as possible. And if you are a fan of BLIND SIGHT, well I am working on that one as well. The problem is that all three stories are only a few chapters from the end. I hate endings.

Okay, I did my bit, chapter up with news and information. Now pay the piper and review. This is a cashless transaction, but nothing in life is truly free.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of these characters or any of these worlds. I make no money from doing this, which is a shame as the holidays are on their way and I have folks to shop for. I'm playing with the idea of donating money to various charities in their names, but that's neither here nor there.

(_12345_)

We return to Draco's POV for…

**Chapter 4**

Draco woke up in another position, and this one much more frightening. He was lying on a smooth fabric covered surface, and his hands and feet were tied down. He could still see the dim light he had seen before, but it had gone from an almost warm amber to a cold grey, and he could only see it through one eye with the other swollen shut so several hours had passed, if not a whole day.

He twisted slightly, testing the ropes. They moved, but he couldn't loosen the knots. He cleared his throat a few times, in case an opportunity came up to shout for help, but it was so dry he choked. Coughing set off the pain in his head again and he felt dizzy and nauseous.

The door opened again, but Draco didn't have the energy to wince this time. He had eaten a light dinner before he went to the club and it was at least a day later, if not more. He almost hoped the man would knock him out again so he could rest. Maybe then he would be unconscious when the lunatic did whatever it was he was planning to do.

The heavy footsteps got closer until the man was standing, looming, over Draco. A sick smile lit his face, handsome enough if it wasn't twisted into a rictus grin.

"Hello Spike. We're friends now, right? So I won't use your number. After all," the man crouched next to the bed and ran his fingers over the raised swelling of Draco's cheek, "We're all good friends. Buffy said so."

Draco opened his mouth, and then closed it again. His throat was too dry to talk, and there was nothing he could say that would cut through the American's madness. He spared the man a one-eyed glare, then turned away slowly so as not to jostle his cheek.

The mattress shifted, releasing a cloud of musty air as the man got up from the floor and joined Draco on the bed. A warm hand caressed the swollen flesh over his cheek bone heavily, forcing him to lift his face upwards if he wanted to decrease the pressure, and Draco bit down the nausea that threatened, focussing his eyes on a water stain on the ceiling.

This was no time to fall apart.

"You're very pretty, Spike. They turned you at the perfect moment so you would stay pretty forever, tempting, the way evil always is."

The man's voice was a low, singing croon, and Draco could feel the calloused skin slide gently down his face, over his throat, across his chest, the light pressure raising the fine hairs at the back of his neck.

"Lucifer was the Morning Star, the most beautiful of all the angels. He fell from grace. Better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven, right Spike?"

It was freezing in the basement, and Draco felt the heat of the man's palm through the thin material of his shirt.

"This is your fault, you know. The Initiative was fine before you ruined it. You drove Buffy away. You drove Sam away. But I know why, don't I?"

From the corner of his eye, Draco saw the bright shine of a knife, and he prayed for death. The blade moved quickly, splitting his shirt down the middle and leaving a thin scratch behind that began to leak small droplets of blood.

The man was silent. Draco lifted his head slightly to see him trailing his fingers through the red fluid. The cut was thin, barely breaking the surface, and the blood stopped quickly, though the stinging remained. If Draco lived long enough, the cut would heal cleanly, no scars. But it was becoming clearer with every second that passed that Draco probably didn't have that much time.

Damp fingers traced the other scars that covered his torso, the long one Potter gave him, the smaller ones he got from Quidditch, and the little round ones his aunt Bella gave him when she was still smoking.

"You're not pretty anymore, Spike. You're not perfect. But then again, you never were," the man's voice had become harder, "You're just another monster. And it's my job to kill the monsters."

Draco watched the knife rise again, pointed straight at the soft flesh of his belly.

(_12345_)

**Note: **a short chapter, I know, but I try to keep them to one point of view at a time so as to cut down on confusion. Next chapter we will be revisiting Xander. I do hope we don't interrupt an intimate moment…

We will, of course. I wrote that chapter months and months ago and it's my first real sex scene.

So if you're happy and you know it, clap your han-- I mean, if you read this chapter and you have something to say, give me a review. Some few of you are reviewing this one and I can't tell you how happy I am to see your comments pop up in your e-mail, but this story is a little underrepresented and I need to know what everybody thinks.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I do not own these characters or these worlds. I do own a vivid imagination and a flair for the melodramatic.

(_12345_)

**Warning: **This chapter contains two sexual acts, one consensual between Xander and Paul and one non-consensual between Draco and his kidnapper. In the latter there is violence and violent language. There is mention of previous sexual acts. If any of this offends you, please do not read.

(_12345_)

**Chapter 5**

The first time Xander saw Paul without a shirt he was surprised. The other man looked slight in the heavy jacket and loose shirts he preferred, but underneath he was still built like the weightlifter he had been in university. Xander wasn't small and his updated wardrobe of tighter shirts and trousers highlighted that fact, but his muscles ran more to the swimmer's build he had cultivated in high school and he felt almost delicate next to the bulkier Frenchman, even though anyone looking at the couple would assume Xander was stronger.

Xander let his hands wander slowly over the rises and swells of abdominals and pectorals as he slid on the length inside him. Paul's hands were rested on Xander's hips; he just held him and let the dark-haired man take control-- take what he wanted.

There was a certain power in this position and Xander could see why Faith had preferred it now. The sight of a strong body beneath you writhing under your control was intoxicating. He twisted his waist again, just to see Paul gasp. Still, Xander liked it the other way too, where he got to be the one taken care of. But Paul preferred Xander on top, saying he was afraid he was too large in general and he might crush or suffocate the smaller man.

Given Paul's tendency to go boneless and near unconscious after orgasm, Xander sometimes agreed with him.

Still, the small part of Xander's brain that was capable of rational thought as he slammed his sweet spot over and over against the hard thickness inside of him wanted to be doing this differently, looking up at the man he loved, the blue-eyed blond thrusting over him, in him, the man he--

"Spike!"

His head swimming in the wake of his orgasm, Xander felt Paul come inside him, the other man too close to stop. Xander collapsed on top of his lover, but the other man gently moved himself free, rolling to the other side of the bed.

As the flush faded from their skin and their breathing quieted, Xander chewed his lip.

"Well, mon chevalier blanc, that was a surprise."

Paul's voice sounded light, but Xander didn't trust that.

"I know I look like this Spike," Paul continued, waving Xander into silence as the man began to babble, "Gerard told me months ago. He was worried you would break my heart."

"I didn't, Paul. I mean, I never loved Spike. He was barely even a friend."

"You forget how well I know you, savoureux." Paul sighed and reached out to clasp Xander's hand. "You say his name in your sleep. His and the others, but he is different. There is such loss, such disappointment, and such frustrated anger. You might not have wanted him before, but you had passion, even if it was hate. Those feelings don't disappear."

"It doesn't matter anyway, he's dead," Xander deadpanned, turning to lie on his side facing the far wall.

He felt Paul's thickly muscled arm on his waist and behind him the gentle voice said, "No one we love ever truly dies."

***

Draco woke up to the tearing pain of someone forcing themselves inside of his body. Face down, his bruised and bleeding chest forced into the rough mattress beneath him; he could feel the American's body heat on his back.

The Slytherin blond was no blushing virgin and he had spent more than a few hours with the girls, and boys, of his dorm. But this was different, crueler and more real than anything that came before, and as Draco felt himself being ripped into again and again, he let himself cry the way he hadn't since he was a child.

His face was smashed down into the musty mattress; he could barely take a breath before another fierce thrust would press him down again. And all the time his ears were free to capture the endless stream of filth muttered by the lunatic on top of him, inside of him.

"So tight. So warm. I thought you would be cold inside monster, but you were always so warm."

Draco's hands were still bound, his arms twisted around each other to the point of pain, and absently Draco hoped they would break, hope his neck would snap from the pushing, hoped the tearing inside him would let him bleed to death in the damp basement, on the old mattress.

As he felt the hot rush of a stranger's fluid inside of him, all Draco Malfoy wanted was to die.

He tried to take himself out of his head, out of the moment. He tried to picture his home, his mother, Severus or Blaise, or a game of Quidditch. But all he could dredge from the depths of his memory was the moment when Harry Potter left him in a pool of his own blood on a manky bathroom floor.

Draco carried the image of tear-filled green eyes and pain with him into the darkness, breathless sobs the only thing he left behind.

(_12345_)

**Note: **Well there you go, my first published sex scenes. I didn't get as blatant as I could have, I suppose, but I feel a little uncomfortable writing sex. Part of the reason for that is because I do a lot of writing during my lunch hour at work. When I wrote the scene between Xander and Paul I actually had to write it at home and then paste it into the main document at work. I was that afraid I would turn bright red at my desk and then have to explain why.

I got the French that Paul used from Altavista Babelfish. I probably won't be providing translations for any of the French I use in this story, but whatever you can't get from context you will find there. I don't actually speak French and neither does my beta, so if you see any glaring grammar errors…

So anyway, do me a solid and review. This story is pre-written for the next few chapters but I have a block right now and reviews do tend to spark the creativity.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I do not own these characters or these worlds or any of that stuff there. And my laptop is starting to exhibit a funny burning smell.

(_12345_)

**Resemblance**

Xander woke up to find Paul gone and a note on the nightstand 'Had to go in, talk later.' After a long shower and a light breakfast, Xander grabbed his gear and his bike and left for the office.

When the Council sent Xander to Paris , they left pretty much everything up to his discretion; location, staff, general policies, budget. So Xander made the most of it. He bought an abandoned bistro and renovated it, by himself at first and then with Gerard's help.

Wide picture windows opened out into a moderately busy street, but they were tinted to keep out any dangerous UV light, both to prevent skin cancer and the immolation of any of their more sun-sensitive clients and students.

Inside Xander kept the original mahogany bar, now polished to a fine sheen and used as the main desk. A few of the old tables were still scattered around the room for small meetings and the Judge, a monstrous copper espresso machine, hummed and gurgled at all hours of the day and night from it's position in the alcove behind the bar.

The kitchen had been partially converted into an office, but Xander liked having professional cooking facilities close too much to take it all out completely. Unfortunately this left them short of office space and there was no room for the classes he wanted to teach, so Xander dug deep into his old contracting skills and enlarged the basement beneath the bistro, making it wider and sturdier.

In that basement, accessible only through a small service elevator hidden behind a mirrored wall in the kitchen, were a series of offices and classrooms in which they managed most of the supernatural crime in France and Spain, and taught everything Xander thought would be helpful in the unending battle against the things that went bump in the night; including among other things, judo, sharp shooting, and meditation.

The sunlight was still dim and grey when Xander made his way into the office, but the few weak rays that leaked in past the tinted windows managed to ricochet off of the espresso monstrosity and right into his eyes, so he couldn't see the man that greeted him.

"What the hell have you done now?"

Luckily, he could remember the voice.

"It was nothing. And anyway, it's between Paul and me, so butt out."

Xander walked further into the room, dropping his helmet on one of the low benches that lined the walls.

From his seat at the bar, Gerard replied, "I wish I could, my friend. But Paul told Marie, and she spoke to me, so now I'm here. With you."

Xander hopped up on one of the stools and he could feel a smirk growing on his face. "Weren't you supposed to be picking out the flower arrangements with your glowing bride to be this morning?"

Gerard grinned into his coffee, "Yes I was. But I made the great personal sacrifice to come here and counsel my friend in his time of need."

Xander laughed a little, "Okay, get me a cup of what you're drinking and we'll talk about it."

Gerard slid down from his stool and walked over to the espresso machine, carefully patting one of its shining pipes, he said, "I'll thank you not to insult his lordship in such a fashion. The old man's been good to us." With a few deft twist and turns accompanied by a chorus of groans,

Gerard coaxed a tiny cup of coffee from the machine. Turning back to Xander, he went on, "Why did you name him the Judge anyway?"

Xander felt his smile turn sad, from old events and new, and picked up the tiny espresso cup, choosing not to answer.

Gerard eyed him sharply, "Mate, you know better than this. Can't hide a thing from me. What happened?"

Xander sighed, "Last night, or," he paused to count," Damn, almost seven years ago?"

Gerard's eyes widened, "Seven years ago?"

Putting the cup down, Xander rested his elbows on the bar, "Back in Sunnydale there was a demon." Ignoring Gerard's snort, he went on, "I know, not really a surprise. Anyway, this demon was called the Judge, and his touch could burn humans, and any trace of humanity in a demon. In either case all he left behind was a pile of ash. A few vampires were using him as a resource, a weapon. This is when the Angelus stuff was just starting up."

Xander took a deep breath of the coffee scented air. "Did you know that some vampires still have their humanity? We always thought that once someone got turned the human left and the demon starting keeping house, but we've learned a lot since then.

Spike-- Spike, whose name I just happened to call out during an 'intimate' moment, was the one who called the Judge. And he almost fried Spike for having too much of his humanity, for being so in love with Drusilla."

Gerard stared, and then snorted before collapsing into giggles.

Xander glared at him, "What."

Through the laughter, Gerard said, "You named our coffee maker after a demon?"

Feeling the blush rise in his cheeks, Xander sputtered, "Well, it always burns me. And without caffeine we wouldn't be human. Shut up, it makes sense."

Xander watched Gerard bend over laughing until the red-headed Englishman could no longer stand and had to sit on the floor behind the bar.

That saved his life.

The lingering threads of his past possessions and a childhood living on the mouth of Hell had honed Xander's senses to a frighteningly high level. He heard the faint clicking before he registered what exactly the sounds were and, acting on reflex, dropped to the floor, as a hail of bullets thudded into the bar where he had been sitting.

The burst was short, only a few minutes between the first bullet and the last, but Xander knew he would be seeing the moment in slow motion for a lot of nights to come.

Once the shooting stopped and his ears weren't ringing anymore, he called out, "Gerard? Are you alright?"

The other man's voice came from behind the bar, shaking with reaction and the edge of hysterical laughter, "Well, I've been better."

Pulling himself along by his forearms, Xander stayed low, in case the shooter was gone, and shimmied as fast as he could across the splinter covered floor to the back of the bar.

Gerard was slumped against the wall, his red curls falling over his face. Xander shifted his head carefully to feel for a pulse. It was there, and racing, but the man's grey eyes were wide and staring. After doing a cursory examination to make sure Gerard hadn't been shot or cut by flying wood Xander grinned to himself and reared back, slapping the other man across the face as hard as he could.

Dazed, Gerard fell over, catching himself awkwardly on a low shelf. Shaking his head, he turned to Xander, and with asked, "Are we safe?"

Xander nodded, the blast of shots had been short and focused.

Then, smiling, Gerard punched him in the eye.

Knocked back, Xander bumped his head against the bar, though the blow was cushioned by the wood, now soft and splintered by the storm of bullets.

"You're not hurt," Xander said, pressing a hand to his face.

"Not until some bastard slapped me. I'm not a hysterical woman, you know."

Xander grinned, "I don't know about that. I vaguely remember a night… a bottle of tequila, your latest break up…"

Gerard glared at him, "I thought we weren't going to talk about that anymore."

"Funny," Xander replied, gently pressing the skin around his eye, "I don't remember saying that. But then again there was a lot of tequila."

"I can punch you in your other eye you know."

"But you looked so pretty in that dress."

Gerard grinned and stood up slowly, peering past the bar at the security camera monitors, "One day you have to tell me where you got that thing. Now, I think the coast is clear."

Taking the freckled hand he was offered, Xander stood. The two men surveyed the damage to the agency. One of the picture windows was cracked. The tempered glass they installed hadn't shattered, but there were huge cracks that spread across the panes in a spider web pattern around the source of the damage, the burst of bullets which had blown a hole right through the thick material.

The attack was calculated, and there was minimal damage; the window, and a pool of wooden shards on the floor around the stool where Xander had been sitting.

Some of the wildness had returned to Gerard's eyes as he turned back to Xander, "They were trying to kill you, mate."

Xander nodded briefly, "The question we have to answer now is who."

"Well, Paul isn't best pleased, but I don't think he wants you dead, and this looks like a

professional job. Almost military precise. Have you pissed off any soldiers lately?"

Xander nodded again, his gaze focused on the window, or something even further away.

(_12345_)

**Note: **So here we have the next chapter. Moving the story along a bit. Next chapter we return to Draco.

Okay, I have to register a bit of a complaint right here. I like reviews. I like getting reviews and I haven't been getting much of a response for this story. I know people are reading it, I can see the hit count and while some of them can be taken for curiosity, there are enough that I know people are following the narrative. So, I just want reviews. Good, bad, or indifferent, click the button and tell me what you think.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I do not own these characters. I do not own these worlds. I have never been to Paris. I have never been raped.

(_12345_)

**Resemblance**

Draco woke up with a deep sense of regret. Some weak and quiet part of him that still held hope thought he might have been lucky enough to die the last time he was unconscious. But the only kind of luck he'd ever possessed was bad.

It had been days, or weeks or months or even years, as far as he knew. He was still lying in the scraps of his jeans, though the spider web tracing of cuts that crossed his legs had closed up.

He was cold, but he could feel the hot rush of fever rush through his body, making him tremble as much as the chill did.

His face had stopped hurting, or maybe the pain had just been overwhelmed by how much—by how much everything else ached. His skin stretched and pulled where the thin cuts had begun to heal. His wrists and ankles were chafed and torn by the thick ropes still tied around them and they were beginning to sink into the abraded flesh. Draco had seen a house elf with that problem before. His shackles had grown into his skin and the only way to get them free was to cut his hands off. Unlike the house elf, Draco knew his hands would not grow back.

There were other pains, deeper pains, but he didn't want to think about them. So he focused on how his nose was itching, but every time he twitched his face he felt a sharp stab pf pain slice though bone he'd thought had healed. He focused on how every shiver sent fragments of bone sliding across one another in his chest. He kept his mind on how his fingers had gone from numb to painful tingling and back to numb.

He tried anything he could to keep his mind off of the fact that he had been raped.

It was a bad word, a dirty word, worse than any other he had ever heard or used, even the ones that had gotten his mouth washed out with soap by a house elf under his mother's direction. His throat was dry and raw from screaming, but he tried to say it, to hear if it was as bad as it seemed.

Rape. Rape. Rape.

He knew the definition. Rape was a forcible sexual penetration, a crime more of anger than passion, and always without consent. He even knew some of the psychology. He'd learned it all from old books about torture and mayhem he'd found in the very darkest parts of his father's library.

Through the shivers he could still feel the burning heat of the pain, worse than any he had ever felt before. Did it hurt as much as it seemed? Was it pure pain, or because of what it represented.

Again, he wished for his wand, for his father, for Snape. Not for the first time in his life, he wished he was Harry Potter and powerful enough to tear the ropes wandlessly. He wished he could cry, but his eyes were too dry and salt-sticky.

The last time Draco was conscious, the man had been on top of him again, inside him. Halfway through the attac—rape, the American sliced open his own arm and crammed it into Draco's mouth, forcing him to swallow the thick flow of blood or suffocate.

Afterwards, the man seemed angry, but he was always angry. Still, this was different. He had a look of disgust in his eyes, and as he pulled himself out of Draco's body, too quickly and too sharply, and he spat on the abraded skin of Draco's stomach.

At the time, Draco was too overwrought to think, to notice what he had done, but now he could feel his flesh shrink away from the white globule.

Draco felt a heavy sense of horror, like a blanket wrapped around his lungs, his heart. He wanted to scream and throw up and run away to hide under his bed. He wanted to go home.

In the pain-filled but peaceful hours when the American was gone, Draco could do what his mind would not allow during attacks, he could leave.

In the empty hours, he walked the halls of Hogwarts, and the Manor. He sat with his mother in silence, watching his father fly over their Quidditch pitch at home. He napped in the Slytherin common room while his friends did their homework around him laughing and talking like the children they were. He remembered playing hide and seek with the house elves in the shadowy halls of Malfoy Manor, and running like a mad thing in the late summer sunlight with Greg and Vince pretending to be Aurors, or Death Eaters, or even Muggles.

"—not healed."

The voice broke into Draco's thoughts and he struggled to focus. The American was standing over him again, raking his eyes over the torn and bloody form of his captive.

He didn't look pleased.

"You're supposed to heal by now. I gave you blood."

Just hearing the word made Draco gag and for the millionth time he wondered how the hell he had ever believed he could be a Death Eater.

The voice snapped him back to the present, "If you won't heal, I have no use for you. I like my pets clean and healthy."

Draco could feel himself shivering, even though the air seemed warmer than usual.

"I'm afraid your usefulness is at an end, Spike."

Draco watched the American lift a black shape. In his months living as a Muggle, he had watched a lot of Movies and he knew that shape, and that it held his death in the form of a tiny slug of metal.

He heard himself whimpering, "I don't—I don't want to die. Please don't kill me. I'll do anything. Anything you want, just don't—"

The quiet click of a hammer being pulled back and as Draco saw the American's fingers tighten slowly, so slowly, on the trigger, he clamped his eyes shut and wished to be away, anywhere else, anywhere safe.

Bang.

(_12345_)

**Note: **I'm afraid it is another chapter of Draco torture, poor boy. There will be a light at the end of the tunnel, but it will be a long time coming.

Please review and tell me what you think.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of these characters or their worlds. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

(_12345_)

**Chapter 8**

Xander stared down at the blank sheet of paper in front of him. Gerard had snatched a broom out of the closet in the back and was sweeping up the wood splinters, ordering Xander to focus and list anyone he knew that might want him dead and would be able to accomplish such a smooth and precise attack.

Next to him the industrial fridge was humming, and a whiff of cinnamon from the large ovens drifted through the room.

The adrenaline had worn off, leaving both men starving, so Gerard threw a batch of cinnamon rolls into the oven, and Xander's attention was torn between his stomach and his life.

Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on the attack. Their office was small and not widely known as they kept a lot of their more dangerous work secluded from the main part of the business. Most of Paris just thought they were rather eccentric detectives and they advertised as such, doing some legitimate private detective work on the side, chasing down cheating spouses and stolen identities. None of which was enough to warrant a well-planned attack with heavy violence in mind, if not outright murder.

The phone rang, startling Xander out of his reverie, and he heard Gerard's rough voice answer.

"Chevalier Investigations. We'll keep you safe."

Xander smiled. The name for their agency had been Giles's idea, but the greeting was Gerard.

In honor of Cordy and the team in LA, Xander had wanted to use, 'We help the hopeless,' but Gerard thought that might give people the impression they were a homeless shelter and shot him down.

The oven 'dinged' and Xander grabbed the sturdy pot holders from their spot on the counter, pulling out the pan of rolls and laying it on a wooden board with the ease born of long practice.

Using a butter knife to spread light sugar frosting over the golden brown pastries, Xander hummed a little happy food song to himself, dancing around the counter.

"Should I tuck a dollar into your apron pocket, Lex? Or do you have to take your shirt off first?"

Startled at Gerard's voice, Xander dropped the knife, cringing at the loud metallic ding it made on the linoleum floor.

The red-headed man smiled briefly, and then his expression took on the seriousness Xander had learned meant something very very bad was going on.

Xander abandoned the knife on the floor and the rolls on the counter and followed, at Gerard's sharp gesture, to the downstairs office.

Heavily warded against magic and technology, the downstairs offices and studios were for practice and planning. Taking seats in the small conference room, Xander waited for Gerard to begin.

"That was LeClerc at the Gendarmes office. He says a boy matching the description of the blond-killer's victims turned up in the gutter in front of the Dames de Mercy Hospital. He was heavily injured and there's evidence of rape."

"Like the others," Xander muttered under his breath.

A small smile haunting the corners of his eyes, Gerard went on, "Except he's alive."

Xander sucked in a sharp gasp. "None of these men have ever been found alive. And they were always hours dead when they were discovered. This isn't a dump. He escaped."

Gerard nodded, "And he may be able to find his way back. Come," he said, rising, "We'll take my car."

As Gerard drove, Xander's head swam with questions, and images of Spike.

(_12345_)

When Draco woke up he was staring into a pair of pale blue eyes. Dazed, he reached out towards them, "Mother?" His throat was sore and his voice hoarse and ragged. _Was he sick?_

A soft accented voice replied, but his head was spinning and he couldn't focus. "I'm tired mother. Can this wait? Just a few more minutes…"

Draco felt himself drifting off when there were hands on him. Unfamiliar hands and in a rush everything came back. Sucking in a harsh breath, he screamed and pushed them away, absently noticing he wasn't tied down. He pushed away from the stranger and fell off of the bed he was on. The tiled floor was cold, but he curled up into a ball and tucked himself into the gap between the bed and the wall next to it, his hands over his head.

His breath was coming in pants, and tears built up in the corner of his eyes. He was shivering, and from what he could see his clothes had been taken, replaced with some kind of paper

gown.

On the other side of the bed he heard voices muttering together. Most of them sounded like women, and Draco wanted to look, but before he had the chance he saw dark colored shoes move around the edge of the bed.

With a soft sob he clenched his eyes shut, waiting for it to start all over again. Trembling from the cold and fear he didn't even notice the sharp pinch of a needle in his arm.

(_12345_)

**Note**: So there you have it, Draco didn't die and he's in a hospital. Things might be looking up a bit for our blond, yeah?

Okay, review and tell me what you thought. While reviews don't make me update any faster, they do provide that jolt of pure guilt that makes me feel like a better Catholic.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **I do not own these characters or these worlds and I make no money doing this.

(_12345_)

**Chapter 9**

_Xander POV_

The kid was tiny. Part of that came from his position, curled up in a ball on the floor, but as Xander helped the orderly lift and uncurl the sedated blondand laid him back down on the hospital bed he could tell that he wasn't much more than a child.

Even through the haze of tranquilizers the nurse had administered, the boy still muttered and twisted in his sleep, fighting the pull of unconsciousness harder than Xander had seen anyone else try. Still, if he had gone through what the blond had, he'd be fighting the long fall into dreams as well.

"That him? Doesn't half look like Paul."

Xander wanted to disagree, finding it difficult to imagine his boyfriend in such a position. Not just because it almost physically hurt him to picture Paul injured like that, pale skin covered in bruises and cuts, because Paul was larger, stronger. The boy on the bed was young, and looked as if he still had growing to do.

Shaking off the image, Xander spoke, still not taking his eyes off of the blond, now sleeping fitfully, "What did the nurses say?"

"They say he just appeared out of nowhere. No one saw him get dropped off, and by his condition he couldn't have walked here."

Xander heard paper rustle.

"According to their examination, he's been starved and deprived of water, and he was probably malnourished to begin with. No broken bones, but thin surface cuts over most of his body and a few old scars. He was raped, a number of times, and bound so badly the ropes almost cut his wrists open. He's lucky about that actually; he could have bled to death if he kept struggling."

Under his breath, Xander said, "He might have preferred it."

"Here's something interesting," Gerard went on, "they pumped his stomach, looking for drugs or something, and got about a quart of blood. Police want to do a DNA test, though they're not sure how much material might have survived the digestive process, but they can already tell that the blood type doesn't match the boy."

Xander turned to Gerard, "Someone made him drink blood?"

Gerard nodded.

Xander turned back to the kid, taking in the pale skin and white blond hair, the sharp features framing a surprisingly lush mouth lax with exhaustion and drug induced sleep.

"Gerard, what the hell is going on?"

(_12345_)

Draco woke up in the bed again. For a moment his breath caught in his throat and he felt panic racing through his blood, but he forced it down, counting silently to slow his heart and forcing himself to take deep breaths.

With the deep breaths, he calmed even more. The air was clean and smelled lightly of flowers, not damp and mold. His senses stretched out further, the sheets were soft underneath him and a warm blanket lay across his chest. His eyes still closed, he could tell there was light in the room and a patch of warmth on his cheek might have been the sun.

In the distance he heard soft voices with lilting French accents.

For a second he felt like he was home again, in his own bed.

Then he remembered everything that had happened, the American, the attack, the rape. He forced his breathing to remain calm and carefully opened his eyes. He was used to the dark room he had been kept in, and if the sun was as bright as it seemed, it would take some time to get used to.

Squinting, he took in the details of the room. He hadn't been inside a Muggle hospital, but this was another case where television had been his teacher and he recognized many of the things around him, including a tall stand with a bag hanging off of it that was leashed to his forearm by a clear tube.

He wanted to pull out the tube, but when he tried to move his hand he couldn't. Turning his head carefully, for it felt pounds heavier than it should, he saw blood stained bandages wrapped around his wrist and around those a thick white cuff, tethered to the bed frame.

Again, he tried to calm himself, but he was tied to a bed and the panic was winning. He wanted to shout, but his throat was dry and he choked, coughing and yanking at his arm.

Quick steps brought a woman in voluminous robes into the room.

"Dear, you need to calm down. You'll pop your stitches at this rate."

It was a Muggle hospital, so he knew she couldn't be a proper medi-witch, but her voice was gentle and her robes reminded him of Pomphrey, so he let her guide him, her cool fingers barely brushing against his fabric covered arm, back to the mattress.

Draco tried to speak, but a jagged croak was all he could make.

The robed woman clicked her tongue and turned towards the low table. When she turned back, Draco saw she had a small cup in her hands.

"Now dear, I can't give you anything to drink right now, but here are some ice chips that should be able to sooth your throat."

A small spoon with a few pieces of ice was offered and Draco wrinkled his nose at the thought of eating like a baby, but accepting it anyway.

After a few spoonfuls he savored as they melted in his mouth, he shook his head at the next and tried speaking again.

"Where am I?"

The woman smiled. "You're at the Dames de Merci hospital in Paris." Her soft face took on a look of concern, "Do you know how you got here? You seemed to just appear on the street."

Draco stared at her. He had no idea how he'd arrived wherever he was. The last thing he remembered was the rape, the blood, and the gun.

He felt himself being dragged along the memory, his body aching deeply and his breath speeding up. When a cool hand touched his chest he screamed a high, thin scream that seemed to echo in his head, his throat hurt so much. Then he felt another pinch and fell into darkness again.

(_12345_)

**Note: **Well here's the next chapter. As I stated in the update of My Angel, I am going to complete these stories. I can't say how often I will update, but I am not going to leave the readers hanging. So if you have stuck with me over my long hiatus, thank you, and if you're new to the story, I hope you're enjoying it.

Leave me a review, tell me what you think. I appreciate constructive criticism as long as it's overwhelmingly positive.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: **I do not own these characters or these worlds or anything at all. I barely own my own piece of mind.

(_12345_)

**Chapter 10**

Xander waited outside the hospital room in an over stuffed chair the nuns had provided. He wasn't officially a police officer, but the Council pulled some strings and the gendarmes didn't fight it. It seemed as though this killer was giving everyone a very bad feeling. Gerard had gone back to the office to see if he could find out who the kid was, in case he didn't wake up any time soon.

A few minutes earlier one of the sisters had gone into the kid's room, and Xander was waiting for an update on his condition when he heard a scream.

It wasn't a regular scream, and Xander had heard many. It was the scream of a dying thing, someone who had given up everything to death and their voice was the only thing they had left.

The sound sent cold chills down Xander's back and he rushed into the room, elbowing past the nursing nuns that had come at the sound as well.

Inside, the nun was holding the kid down, pressing a bright syringe to his arm. Though it looked to Xander as though the blond needed no securing, he just lay there like he was already dead, the only evidence to the contrary that horrible scream which tapered off slowly as the drugs kicked in and consciousness fled.

Suddenly capable of hearing something other than the shrill sound, Xander noticed that the nuns were murmuring prayers around him over the boy in the bed. Xander watched them go about their work, cleaning up a cup of ice chips that had fallen, re-securing the dislodged IV tube, calming the nun that had been examining the patient at the time.

Xander, knowing he would have to wait for the kid to wake up to get any information directly from him, left the hospital and found a small café nearby. Pulling out his cellular phone, he hit the quick dial button.

"Chevalier Investigations?"

"Gerard?"

"Xander."

A short pause followed, which Xander broke, "Today is not a good day for games, mon frere. What did you find?" Gerard had taken the kid's personal effects from the hospital.

"Not much. Black tee, torn and covered in blood. Black jeans likewise, along with… other bodily fluids. No wallet or ID, one silver ring with some sort of crest on it. I'm researching it, but no hits so far. How about you? Is he awake?"

Xander sighed, "He woke up for a minute, and then panicked and they had to knock him out again. I don't know if he'll be able to help us."

Gerard's voice came down the line clear, firm, and implacable. "He has no choice."

"Gerard, he's a kid. An abused and terrified kid. I'm not going to interrogate him." Xander could hear the harsh edge in his voice and he wondered how everything had gotten so serious, so fast.

On the other end of the line he heard Gerard tapping on the keyboard of their computer.

Xander waited for a response and one finally came.

"Sorry. I don't mean to be harsh, or glib. But this is serious business and this kid could be the key to finding the lunatic and stopping him."

"I agree, and I'll keep watch. When he wakes up I'll get in there, try to figure out what he knows, but I'm not going to pressure him. Now, keep me informed. That ring could mean something, and I'll try to be back by the office tonight."

"Right."

A click and the line disconnected. Xander turned off his phone. He had a pager that would notify him if he was needed without burning through batteries like the phone. Gerard teased him about dragging around 'such ancient technology,' but Xander never remembered to carry his charger and this was the most reasonable solution.

Taking a final slurp of the coffee in front of him, he pinned a few bills under his saucer and walked back to the hospital.

The nun who had been watching over the kid earlier was sitting on the warm marble steps, staring out into the street.

Xander settled down beside her.

"Are you alright?"

She turned to him slowly, her eyes glazed over and shining with tears. Xander slapped fruitlessly at his pockets, searching for any tissue or handkerchief that might have magically appeared in his pockets at some point, before she grabbed his wrist and held on, shifting her grip to his hand.

"You are a policeman," she asked, her voice soft and her eyes coming back into focus.

Xander nodded, and then said, "I am, of a sort. I don't work for the police force, but for a detective agency. Chevalier Investigations."

A gentle smile creased the wrinkles in her face, "That is good. You will help him."

Xander took a deep breath. There were roses winding around the heavy wrought iron fence and their dense aroma filled his throat, almost choking him with sweetness.

Turning to the sister, he said, "I'll do my best, Sister…" He trailed off, not knowing her name.

Smiling, she rose to her feet, dragging him up by the grip she still had on his hand. Releasing him to clasp his hand more traditionally, she gave it one solid shake and grinned at him, "Sister Jeanne Marie, Monsieur Chevalier. Very pleased to be working with you."

Releasing his hand, she bustled into the hospital, trailing the warm scent of roses behind her. Xander followed, bemused.

As she walked, she talked. "The tranquilizer we gave him was very light, so he should be awake soon, but I expect enough of it will linger in his system to keep him calm, so you can ask some questions."

She stopped sharply and Xander stumbled to a halt, almost tripping into her black-clad form.

Turning, she focused a diamond sharp green gaze on him.

"We will let you talk to him and ask your questions. But I will be staying in the room. If he gets upset or tired I expect you to leave him to rest. This needs to be done on the boy's time."

Xander opened his mouth to argue, they were hunting a serial killer, but instead clamped his jaw shut and nodded.

She nodded as well, and the look in here eyes softened again. "Good," she said, turning and walking towards the room.

When they got to the room, Xander was startled to see two men in there, one standing next to the bed with a pen in his hand and another with a camera.

The boy was barely awake, his silver eyes hazy, but his body was as tense as a bowstring. Sister Jeanne Marie charged in, grabbing a carafe from the side table and swinging it at the men, splashing cold water on them and their equipment. They yelled at her at rapid fire French, too fast for Xander to catch the meaning as he stood out of her way and theirs.

The men were taller than the diminutive nun, but they cowered at the assault. She drove them out of the room, past a grinning Xander, and stood in the doorway watching them run.

Xander heard her mutter, "Merde," under her breath and added his own, "Amen."

She turned to him with fire in her eyes, but it changed into laughter and she nodded ruefully before shushing him and turning to her patient.

The boy was fully awake and sitting up a little, staring at the nun with something like awe on his face. She moved towards the bed slowly, and the boy tracked her movements.

She stepped within arms reach but kept her hands at her sides, asking him if he was all right in gentle French.

He nodded, and then focused his attention on Xander.

His voice, when he spoke, was rough, but the English accent was distinctly upper-class.

"Who are you?"

Xander stepped forward a few steps, stopping when the boy tensed. "My name is Alexander Harris, Xander. I work for Chevalier Investigations and I'd like to ask you a few questions."

The kid smiled, "An American? Wonderful," and let his head drop back onto the fluffy pillows.

Xander was confused, but he pressed on. "Can you tell us your name?"

"No."

Xander caught the nun's eye and nodded towards the boy. In a soft voice she encouraged him to sit up and answer the questions.

The boy obeyed and groaned as he was propped upright against the thick pillows and sturdy headboard.

"Fine. My name is Draco Malfoy. I have a small flat on the Rue la Fayette, and I work in Le Monde de la Douleur, a book store. What else do you need to know," the boy asked, smirking slightly under the heavy bruises that painted his features.

"Draco Malfoy," Xander mused. It was a strange name, and definitely not British. "Where are you from?"

The boy laughed; a short harsh bark. "I'm from Turkey. Where the bloody fuck do you think I'm from?"

Xander fought back a glare. The kid was injured and exhausted, and probably still very afraid. Yet there was still the urge to give him a sharp smack in the head. No wonder whoever it was had mistaken him for—

"Do you know anyone named Spike?"

As Xander let the last word fall from his lips he saw the kid's skin, already deathly pale, fade and his eyes widen as his pupils contracted into pinpricks.

"Who is that? I don't know-- What do you want?"

The kid was breathing faster, and the nun turned a worried eye onto the machinery monitoring the now frantic heartbeat.

"I'm sorry. I don-- I'm not Spike. I swear I'm not."

The blond, Draco, was now completely panicked, and Xander heard the dull metallic thud as the kid wrenched his arm away from the bed rail as far as the buckled straps would let him.

"Sh, sh, petite. Please calm down. Monsieur Harris is not here to hurt you. He wants to find the man that did this."

The boy turned his pinprick gaze to the nun and visibly relaxed. After he quieted down, she dropped a glare on Xander that made him flinch.

Her voice still in gentle tones, Sister Jeanne Marie said, "See petite, he is afraid of such an old woman as I. He cannot harm a strong young man like you. Now, why don't you rest and I will take Monsieur Harris into the hall for a moment."

The nun settled the kid back against the pillows, his eyes becoming hazy with sleep, then dragged Xander, none too gently, back out into the hall.

"What did you think you were doing," she demanded in a whisper, closing the patient's door behind her.

"My job," Xander replied, in shock from what had happened inside. The kid didn't know Spike, but he had heard of him, and that meant the killer knew him too.

Xander set his hand on the nun's shoulder and looked her in the eye. "I have no intention of doing anything to hurt or frighten that boy."

She opened her mouth to interject, but he cut her off, "We're looking for a serial killer who has been raping and torturing young men of Draco's description. That kid is the only one to escape and he might be able to lead us somewhere."

Xander sighed, tucking his hands in his pockets, "Believe me, I don't like doing this, and I very much wish it was unnecessary, but we have no choice."

Twisting the shining strand of ebony beads at her neck, the nun pinched the tiny, exquisitely carved Christ between her fingers. Looking down at the peaceful face briefly, she took a deep breath, and then faced Xander again.

"I will help you. But, in turn, I will be with you on this. I want this lunatic caught as much as you do, but someone must ensure Draco is taken care of. The monster that attacked him is still very much with him, no matter that the boy escaped, and I do not know if you can care for him while you hunt."

Her eyes were flat, implacable. Like a tiny mountain draped in a black robe, she would not be moved.

And Xander had no intention of trying.

With a grin he said, "You're on. I have a dispensation to move him out of here tomorrow. Fully outfitted rooms have been provided in a secure location, and you will be coming along to make sure everything is in order and remains so."

Offering her an extravagant bow, he went on, "Welcome, Sister Jeanne Marie, to Chevalier Investigations."

With a startled giggle, she offered her hand. He accepted it and placed a smacking kiss on the back. A bargain had been struck.

(_12345_)

**Author's Note: **…so… heh… Been a while… oh, me? I'm doing well, and yourselves? Yeah? Good to hear, good. So…

Please review. I'm doing NaNoWriMo and I need the support.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of these characters or this world at all. I make no money writing this. It would be nice, but considering how long it takes me to update I'd starve anyway.

(_12345_)

**Chapter 11**

Draco woke in another strange room, but at least this one was warm. He opened his eyes carefully. There was no one in there but him, so he had the time to examine his newest environment.

The walls were wooden, a shining dark amber. Pictures of forest scenes hung on the walls, a few paintings and a tapestry. A calendar on the table by the bed showed the date as the thirty-first, so he had only been gone a week. The metal tree from the hospital was in the room as well, anchored to his arm. And when he went to examine the tubing he found that his hand was free, no longer tied down, though still thickly bandaged.

The air smelled of cinnamon and lemon, an unfamiliar combination, but significantly more pleasant than anything else he had encountered lately, the thick damp of the cellar, the bitter medicinal air of the hospital.

Carefully shifting on the bed he had woken in, he took a moment to examine his injuries. His face felt less swollen to questing fingertips, though he wanted a mirror to see exactly how bad it was. His wrists were aching dully, but it had faded from the earlier pain, and a few experimental deep breaths didn't bring too much pain.

Sitting up gently, he felt the deeper pain of the rape. The immediacy of the violence was gone, and every motion didn't bring back the initial tearing sensation, but there was a feeling of loss left behind, as though something had been taken out of him, or from him.

He tried to clear it out of his mind. The important thing right now was to figure out where he was and who had him, and try to get away.

A soft knock came to the door, followed by a pause. Another knock and another pause led Draco to believe whoever was on the other side might be waiting for permission; it was a novel sensation after the events of the past few days.

"Come in," Draco said, trying to keep his voice calm and steady.

The door opened on a black-robed figure carrying a tray. Stepping in and closing the door behind them, they looked up and Draco saw it was the nun from the hospital, the one who gave him ice chips. She seemed to have something better on offer today, as the tray held a large mug with a savory steam wafting out of it.

She came towards the bed at a steady pace, not hurrying or slowing down, and when she was close enough, she set the tray on a small table, and handed the mug over.

Draco reached for it with his free hand, but it shook slightly, and he dropped the hand into his lap, not trusting it with the weight of the cup, and turning away from the woman to face the wall as he felt the heat of a blush climb his cheeks.

Behind him he heard her cluck her tongue, then a warm hand settled on his own.

"My petite. You have had too much pain. But I meant what I said at the hospital. You are very strong, and you can believe me on this because Sister Jeanne Marie never lies."

Taking a deep breath, Draco forced the blush to recede and turned back to the woman.

With a small smile haunting the corners of her mouth, she looked at him, measuring his condition while keeping her hands at her sides. Her eyes twinkling slightly she nodded once, decisively, and picked up the mug again.

"I will help you eat, because you must eat if we are to get those tubes out of you. But I know soon enough you will be fighting me for the spoon."

She laughed lightly, and offered the mug, which Draco now saw was half full of some broth and he leaned forward, sipping at the tepid but delicious liquid.

After a few sips, with barely half of the broth gone, he leaned back, shaking his head as she offered the cup.

"No more. I can't," he rubbed his stomach gently. He saw no change in the blanket covered expanse, but he felt stuffed full.

The nun set the mug back on the tray and offered Draco a napkin. He took it and wiped his mouth carefully, his face still sore.

Taking back the cloth, she set it on the tray as well, and picked it up, turning to walk away.

Draco grabbed her arm to stop her, and she turned quickly, "Yes? Is something wrong?"

"Where-- I mean. This is the third time I've woken up and I don't know—"

He couldn't finish the questions, but she seemed to know what he wanted. She set the tray back down and walked towards the bed, gently lifting the quilt higher over his chest.

Draco let himself be coddled, but he didn't let go of her hand.

Smiling, she said, "You're in a safe place. The man I introduced at the hospital runs a detective agency, and they are working to find the monster that hurt you before he can hurt anyone else."

Draco felt his chest tighten up. He didn't want to find that monster, he wanted to hide. His breathing grew faster and he saw spots in front of his eyes.

He could hear his head buzzing, and he started to drift off into the grey static when he felt a sudden sharp pinch on his arm. For the first time there wasn't a shining needle at the end of it, but the boney fingers of the elderly nun.

"I'm sorry dear, but you needed to calm down a bit. I know these are distressing times, but we must hold strong and brave the danger." Her voice was so forthright and matter of fact that Draco found himself nodding along before he realized what she was saying.

Shaking his head gently in negation, he said, "Wait. You want me to help? I just got away from that bastard. I'm done. Besides, I'm a coward. I don't fight; I hide until I can run."

The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but Draco knew they were true. He'd spent his childhood hiding behind his friends and his father's name, and that night on the tower he'd run again, depending on Severus to save his skin.

Releasing the nun's hand with a sharp jerk, Draco settled himself as comfortably as he could and turned his head away, closing his eyes and faking sleep.

The nun said nothing, but picked up the tray and left. Draco heard her open and

close the door quietly, and eventually his fatigue got the best of him and feigned sleep

became the real thing.

(_12345_)

**Author's Note: **I know it doesn't seem like it sometimes, given how long it takes me to update, but I don't have any abandoned stories. I intend for every one of these to be completed, though I'm not sure when that will be. This one is actually a bit of a favorite of mine, just because it feels so different from some of my other stories. I have a few chapters written ahead on this one so I will try not to make you wait forever for the next installment.

Until then, please let me know what you think. I value all of your opinions, good and bad. Though more the good ones I have to admit.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: **Anything you recognise I do not own. Gerard, Marie, and the nun are mine, but that's it.

(_12345_)

**Chapter 12**

Xander waited just outside the door. He didn't want the kid, Draco, to see him.

Sister Jeanne Marie came out, the tray shaking in her trembling hands. Xander lifted it out of her grip and she stared at him, dazed, as if she had forgotten he was there.

"Is he all right?"

She nodded slowly. "He is well physically. But I fear for his soul."

Xander sighed and followed the nun down the hallway towards the stairs, "I'm afraid his soul isn't our concern right now."

A spark of life coming back into her voice, Jeanne Marie replied, "It may not be your concern Xander, but it is mine. What use is a healthy body with no soul, no spirit inside? He might better be dead than living like that."

Xander set the tray down on the counter with a heavy 'click' and turned to the nun.

"Never say that. I have seen the horrible things that can happen to people, and life is always better. Where there's life there's hope, right? And isn't that your people's stock in trade?"

The nun nodded, her mouth set in a thin line, before she said, "Since he is resting, I will go to my room. But I will need to see him again in a few hours to change his bandages." With that she left the kitchen.

Xander sank onto a padded stool and let out a relieved sigh.

"So afraid of a woman," Gerard said, smirking, as he entered the room through the stairwell door.

Xander nodded, "Don't judge by appearances. You do not want to meet some of the women I know with that attitude. As a matter of fact, I know you don't want your blushing bride to be and mother of your child to know you just said that."

Gerard raised his hands defensively and grinned, "Okay, you win. I take it back. Women are very scary. And short elderly nuns are the most frightening of all.

So," he continued, his voice turning serious," I think I may know something about our new friend."

Xander settled onto one of the wooden stools that circled the long counter and gave Gerard his full attention.

The red head flipped through a small notepad, "I couldn't find anything on the crest alone, but when combined with the name I found an old ancient house, medieval and very powerful. They were reputed to be seers and mages to the king so powerful that the founder of the house, an Alexander Malfoy, was granted a title and lands."

More pages turned, "The standard medieval doings occurred for about a hundred years. Right when the witch hunts started up the entire family disappeared, razing their manor house to the ground. There are a few old wives's tales about witches and wizards coming from the family, fantastical tales of magic and miracles that were largely discredited by historians."

At this Gerard arched an eyebrow at Xander and he smirked in reply. Both men knew exactly how plausible such things were.

"Anyway, once they disappeared, they disappeared. There were rumors of the Malfoys riding the night in black cloaks on ghostly horses, stealing babies and livestock and pretty much anything they could get their hands on. The standard stuff for the time.

There is one interesting thing," Gerard said, trailing off.

Xander got impatient and growled.

"They are described as being ghostly pale, of white hair and silver eye, and possessed of mesmerizing beauty."

Xander thought of the boy in the bedroom down the hall and imagined him whole and healthy, the way he might have been before the attack, "They might have a point. The coloring is there at least. I'll have to ask the kid of he's ever stolen a cow before, though. Frankly, I would be shocked if he's even seen one."

Setting his sheaf of papers down on the gleaming counter, Gerard took a seat next to Xander. A rare seriousness in his eyes, he said, "Do you think he can help us?"

Just as seriously, Xander replied, "I think so. He's afraid now, and with good reason, but he's stronger than he thinks, you can see it in his face. A lot of people, this kind of thing happens and they collapse, they break."

Now staring into his own hands, Xander went on, "This kid didn't break."

Gerard nodded and got up again, gathering his papers together, "We should ask if he has any sort of magic or any demon blood. The victims might be tied by more than appearance, and the closer we can pinpoint the serial killers targets more accurately we're that much closer to finding him."

Xander stood as well, "I'll ask the kid when the nun is out of the room. Some of our religious friends don't have warm feelings towards our magical brethren. And if they do, those feelings are expressed through bonfires."

Gerard smiled crookedly, then grinned as Xander stretched his lower back, groaning, "Paul let you have the couch again?"

Xander glared at his laughing, red headed friend, "Shut up. It just so happens that I prefer the couch."

"Poor Xander," Gerard said, smiling widely, "One mistake and you're banned from the bedroom."

Xander stretched again and repeated, "Yup. Just one little mistake."

Xander had spent the last few nights sleeping on the woefully inadequate couch in Paul's living room and trying to figure out why the hell he would call out Spike's name in a moment of passion. The vampire was sexy, but he was gone and Spike had never been interested in Xander in the first place.

Shaking his head to clear the thoughts away, Xander smirked. "So, have you told Marie how you feel about the reception plans yet? Specifically that you forgot to book the hall and now they aren't available anymore."

Gerard paled, his bright grey eyes standing out in stark relief, "You—you wouldn't. That's too evil, even for you."

Xander laughed. "Hey, if I'm not having sex, no one is," and turned to walk up the stairs and back into the sunny office. There was coffee brewing, he could sense it.

(_12345_)

**Note: **It didn't occur to me until I was writing the disclaimer above but this is my first fan fiction with a real OC presence. Usually I do well with the various canon characters, though I may tweak them a bit for my own purposes, but here I have actually invented people.

Weird.

Review.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: **I do not own these characters or this world and I make no money from this. I kind of wish I did but I think if I was I wouldn't enjoy it as much. If that makes any sense.

(_12345_)

**Chapter 13**

There were no windows in his room, and no clock, so Draco wasn't sure whether it was morning or night when he woke. The calendar page hadn't changed, but that didn't really mean anything because it could have been set for any day. His own internal clock was no help at all, and his wand was still back at his apartment, much too far away to do any good.

Thinking of that caught in his memory. _How had he escaped the American? _The last thing he remembered was the gun, and at the thought Draco felt his heart begin to beat faster, harder. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths, searching deep inside himself for whatever wellspring of Malfoy decorum and dignity he had left.

All of that was broken with a stifled gasp as the door opened suddenly, a black cloaked figure limned in light from the hallway beyond.

"I'm sorry, dear. I came to change your bandages."

The figure moved further into the room and Draco saw it was the nun who had been in earlier. He smiled in relief, and chuckled weakly at his own fear.

"Come in sister."

The nun walked in, a wary smile on her face, "Are you all right? You sounded so afraid? A bad dream?"

Draco couldn't admit to being afraid of his own imagination, his own memory, so he just nodded, "A dream, yes."

The nun nodded as well, "It is to be expected. Now, let's see how you are doing."

Deft hands moved impersonally over Draco's body, from his wrists, to his legs, and points in between. Draco watched the hands closely, tensing as they crossed areas that hurt, or reminded him of… other things.

When she was done, Sister Marie settled in the low chair and smiled. "You are healing terribly quickly, child. Quicker than the doctors would have expected, and in this you are very lucky. You should be back on your feet in a few days, though you will have to be careful of your ribs until they are fully healed, and keep your other wounds clean to prevent infection.

Draco pinked at the phrase 'other wounds' knowing what it must refer to, but soldiered on with his intended request, "If I am well, I would like to go back to my flat."

The nun's face grew serious, "I'm afraid you can't leave yet—"

"I can leave whenever I please," Draco said, struggling up form the heavy blankets, "I am a Malfoy, and I won't be held against my wi—"

"And how are you going to leave? On a broom? You don't know where you are, or what time it is. You have no proper clothes, no money, and no identification."

Draco froze as the dark brown voice rolled in through the open doorway, followed by the dark-haired American, the detective, from the hospital. As the man came in sight, Draco collapsed, exhausted, back to the bed, wincing at the pain in his ribs and back.

Gathering his scattered wits, and trying not to panic again at the thought of another tall American standing over him, Draco forced a sneer into his voice, "A broom? You must be mad. I'll take the Metro if I have to. Hell, I'll hitch a bloody ride; I just want to go home."

The man entered the warm pool of amber light and Draco got his first good look at him. Close up he didn't look very threatening. If Draco could guess he would say the man was his height, maybe only an inch or so taller, and while he was probably more muscular it looked a lot like Draco's own lean muscle. Curling brown hair fell over the lightly tan skin of his face and a black eye patch made him look almost roguish, as did the laughing light in his other eye.

Draco could see strength in this man, and old sorrow, but no hatred and no evil.

"Are you done? Do I pass inspection?"

The man's voice broke Draco's contemplation and he started back, snapping into the present again, but feeling safer this time. This American was different than the one who had attacked him, had raped him.

Feeling warm pinkness flush his cheeks again and silently wondering when he had lost all control of his blush, Draco muttered into his blankets wrapped fists.

"I'm sorry, you'll have to say that again," the man, Xander, said.

"Where am I? Why am I here? I want to go home," Draco said, trying to keep his voice even and cool and hearing his complete failure in every wobbling note.

Xander moved closer, his visible eye softening as he reached out, but Draco flinched away and the man stopped, dropping his hands back to his sides.

"You are in my detective agency; we have some rooms to rent in the basement. You're here because it's safe. We don't know who had you but we know they hurt you very badly, just as they hurt almost thirty men before you.

As for going home," the man paused and sighed, turning to look at the nun. Draco looked at her as well and though there was a sad look in her brilliant green eyes, she was resolute.

Turning back to Draco, Xander said, "I'm sorry, but you can't go home. If you need anything I can go get it, but for right now you need to stay here."

"Draco," Xander said, using his name for the first time, "We need your help."

"Let me go home and I'll help you as much as you like," Draco countered blankly, folding his arms tenderly across his chest, careful of the broken ribs and his damaged wrists.

Xander shook his head, "I told you, it's not safe. Give me the address and I'll get your things, but I'm not letting you out of here."

Draco felt his cheeks burning again, but hotter, hotter than they had felt in a very long time.

"You won't let me out of here? You won't let me go home? Who the hell are you to tell me what I can and can't do? In the past however the hell long it's been I was dragged out of a club by some lunatic, beaten, and raped. Suddenly he's pointing a gun at me and the next thing I know I'm in a gutter; lucky to be alive but wishing I was dead.

I have been through hell and you're going to tell me I have to stay here? You're not my father, my lover, or my friend. What authority do you have?"

Xander leaned forward onto the bed, over Draco's prone form, "I'm the man who is trying to stop this lunatic. I'm the man who is trying to save your worthless pasty ass. I'm the man who is protecting you, and right now I wish I wasn't."

Draco sat silent, staring at the man who was standing over him. His anger was gone, wiped away in the cold chill of his heart and the hot pain of his ribs. He wrapped his arms tighter around his body and purposefully turned away from Xander, pushing his face into the pillow so he couldn't see the nun looking from one man to the other with tears unshed in her eyes.

He was alone, even with them in the room. No family, no friends, hunted by the Order and the Death Eaters and now some psychopath.

He wanted to die. Clenching his eyes shut as tightly as he could, and wrapping the sheets tighter around his white knuckled wrists, he wanted to disappear.

He wanted to go home.

(_12345_)

**Author's Note: **You know, I'm not sure why I keep hurting the same type of characters. For whatever reason it seems to be the blond's I have it out for. Draco Malfoy, Spike, Uzumaki Naruto (a story I'm working on), Wolfram Von Bielefeld (another story I'm working on), Ryan Atwood, Tamaki Suoh… If it wasn't for Erestor it would be a complete Hurt/Comfort Blond-apalooza.

I have to ask you guys and gals a question now. Well, I have a question and a request. The question is this: I don't charge for these stories, I can't and I wouldn't even if I could. This is for fun and entertainment only. But would you pay for the quality of my work? I write original stories as well and I've sent some in for publication and contest. But it is a world of 'no' out there. I just got my first 'yes' but a little more reassurance would be nice. So, $5.99 for a paperback, not these characters but a similar style. Would that be reasonable?

And the request is this: I'm going through a tough time at work and it's going to get more difficult over the next few months when I have to decide whether to stay in my job or leave and try to find something better. I don't know your religions and I make no claim of priority over the things you might already be praying for, but if you could think a good thought for me I would appreciate it. My heart is hurting a little right now and I handle stress very badly. So, think a good thought for me, yeah? And I'll think one for you.

Now, read and review and I hope your summer is starting off well.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing and I make no money from the writing of this story

(_12345_)

**Chapter 14 **

Xander closed the door behind him and let himself sink to the floor, seeing the nun join him from the corner of his eye.

"I know, I know. I messed up," he said before she had the chance to.

"Yes, you did."

"I yelled at a rape victim."

"Yes, you did."

"I told him I didn't want to protect him, and ordered him to stay locked up as if he was a prisoner."

"Yes, you did."

Xander looked at the nun, who had been nodding her agreement, "Any advice, sister?"

She looked at him, "Patience is a virtue?"

He stared at her silently. She colored and went on, "Well, it's all I have. He's upset, you're upset, and I'm upset. I'd say we wait a few minutes for everyone to calm down and then we go back in there. And maybe," she said, the smile returning to her face, "I should do the talking."

Xander nodded firmly and felt a smile ease onto his face that quickly fell away when an alarm began ringing throughout the hall.

He got to his feet, levering himself awkwardly up off of the floor using the wall as leverage, then he offered the nun a hand as she stood more gracefully.

Putting her hands over her ears, Jeanne Marie looked at Xander, shouting, "What's going on?"

Every alarm in the building had a specific meaning and Xander knew exactly what this one was- magic.

"It's nothing," he shouted at the nun, mouthing the words clearly so she could read his lips, "Probably a false alarm. Go outside and I'll look around. Just to be safe."

The nun looked skeptical, but she nodded and followed a clearly posted series of signs to the Exit door at the end of the hall.

Taking a deep breath and reminding himself that the kid had been seriously traumatized, Xander put on his gentlest expression and went back into the room.

The lights were dim, but as he moved closer to the bed it was easy to see it was empty. Blood dotted the sheets, but they were older stains Draco's injuries had left over the past few days. There were no signs of violence, and Xander had been sitting just outside of the only door in or out of the small room.

Even knowing the futility of the gesture, Xander bent over and flicked aside the dust ruffle to check under the bed. Finding nothing more than a nose full of lint, Xander stood again.

"What happened," Gerard demanded from the doorway.

Staring down at the empty bed, Xander said, "He's gone."

(_12345_)

Draco woke up half on a floor and half not, he seemed to be draped over someone's lap. Pushing himself away he looked up into a painfully familiar face.

Narcissa Malfoy sat, sleeping, on a high backed wooden chair. Her head had drooped to her shoulder and her hair lay disheveled around her lax resting face.

Draco unwrapped one of his arms from around his throbbing ribcage and reached a trembling hand toward his mother. His fingers only inches from her skin, he heard a loud thump and drew back sharply, looking for the source of the noise.

The room around them was small, bare wooden walls and floor enclosed the space and sparse furniture filled it, the chair, a small table, a trunk.

Draco turned back to his mother again, and she seemed to be stirring. Her deep grey eyes fluttered briefly, and then focused, "Draco? What- How did you get here?"

Draco opened his mouth, to speak, to cry, he wasn't sure, but he didn't have the chance as the door to the room slammed open, crashing against the wall.

Severus stood framed in the darkness beyond. His robes were tattered and deep lines of strain crossed his sallow face, "Narcissa, we have to get out of here. They've found us." He was breathing heavily and Draco noticed the wand in his hand at the same time Severus realized Draco was there, "Draco? What are you doing here?"

There was no time for answers as Draco heard muted shouts coming from beyond the doorway.

Severus turned panicked eyes on Narcissa and Draco. "It doesn't matter now. We have to get out of here. The Death Eaters have found us and I—"

Severus was cut off by a stream of red light that sent him writhing to the floor.

Draco lunged towards the man, but collapsed to the floor, his legs to weak to bear his weight. The breath rushed out of his chest in a sharp bark and his ribs loudly protested any further movement.

Narcissa moved forward and leaned over Draco, shifting her son's body over. Meeting her eyes, Draco saw sorrow and hope mixed.

"You're alive," hiw mother whispered, her voice quiet and damp, "Severus said you were, but I was so afraid."

Draco wanted to close his eyes and sink into this moment, but he could hear heavy footsteps approach, accompanied by the kind of screeching laughter he'd only heard in nightmares.

"Mother, we have to go. We have to get Severus and—"

"Don't worry. I have one more trick up my slee-"

Draco heard no more as a thick stream of red light crossed his field of vision. Gathering up any strength he might have had left he pushed his mother out of the way and as a consequence moved in front of the light.

His throat too torn to scream, Draco groaned heavily as the pain of _Cruciatis_ sizzled along his nerve endings and the world, mercifully, went black.

(_12345_)

**Author's Note:** This chapter is very much belated and too short for how long I've made my readers wait. I have been in a big rut with regards to my writing and as much as I resolve to pick it up again it never quite seems to work out. But now I have my sister and beta DerSaboteur pushing me a little bit harder and I am feeling more optimistic.

None of my stories have been abandoned and my intention at this time is to complete all of them. I cannot tell you when it will happen only that it is my intention to make it happen.


End file.
